Pick Yourself Up
by Fernandidilly-yo
Summary: The world hasn't stopped turning even though Tim's is in the process of crumbling. And it's selfish and unfair to think it would do anything otherwise, but Tim still finds himself wishing that it would take a pause, one moment of stillness, just so he could finally catch his breath. But the world stops for no one, least of all Tim.


**I've wanted to write Robin!Tim for a long time, this is not exactly what I was thinking of...but oh well, angst was calling my name.**

**_Disclaimer-_ I do not own these characters...I only wish I did. **

**_Trigger Warning-_ This fic is dealing with Tim's grief after his father's death, he showcases Depressive Behaviors and Actions, including slight Dissasostantion. Just keep that in mind. **

**Happy reading kids! **

* * *

**Pick Yourself Up-**

The rain soaks through Tim's outer layers, chilling his skin and making him shudder as he wanders a bit aimlessly. His sneakers squelch against wet pavement, leave little bubbles behind as Tim walks.

It's nine in the evening, fully dark outside, but the streets are still bustling with citizens, a sea of colorful umbrellas and ruffled people all trying to get home.

Tim had gone to visit Dana and accidentally fallen asleep in the plastic chair next to her bedside. Woken up when a nurse had come in to inform him that visiting hours where over.

He should have gone home, returned to the empty apartment that used to hold Tim's life. Back to what used to be the Drake's, with dad's blood staining the floor and without Dana's humming voice to fill the walls. But just the thought of going back there is enough to make Tim gag.

So Tim wanders instead.

He knows where he's headed, has for the last mile or so, but he hasn't acknowledged it yet. Acknowledging it means that Tim would have to think about more than the sound of his Chucks on the sidewalk and the pitter-patter of the rain around him.

And Tim . . . Tim just doesn't want to think right now.

When he gets to the apartment building Tim walks up the stairs and dully glances at the buttons lining the wall. Stares at the slightly faded '**4C**' that would buzz him to Dick's apartment with a push of a finger.

Tim thinks about trying to form words, having to explain to Dick that- _yes, he walked here from the clinic in the pouring rain, and hey, could he come in, please?_ -and his mouth fills with sticky cotton.

Tim pulls a lockpick out of his pocket and lets himself in.

He counts the stairs by twos as he climbs up, something mundane to occupy himself with. He's up to forty-eight by the time he's made it to the third floor, it's another thirteen paces before he's at Dick's door.

The beige-colored-paint is peeling around the handle and peephole. Tim stares at his minuscule reflection in the glass of it until his vision goes blurry and unfocused.

He's in the middle of trying to find the courage to knock, fingers clenching and unclenching into a fist at his side, when the door opens.

Dick's still in his police uniform, his dress shirt untucked, tie missing, socked feet sticking out from under his work pants. He blinks in surprise when he finds that Tim is the one lurking outside his apartment. But then his face goes all sad and worried, and Tim hates himself for it.

"Timmy," Dick murmurs, pushing the door fully open. "You wanna come in, bud?" He gestures inside with his head, gives Tim one of his small sincere smiles that Tim can't find it in himself to reciprocate.

Tim's teeth are still glued together, his tongue pasted to the roof of his mouth, his jaw locked into place- so he just nods, feeling numb, and cold, and so, so tired.

Dick's hand finds its way to Tim's shoulder, warm and big and full of sunshine. Usually, when Dick is this close to Tim everything seems a little more vibrant, brighter, alive.

It doesn't feel that way this time.

Dick leads Tim to the couch, nudging the teenager to sit down before he crouches in front of Tim. It makes Tim feel like a little kid, having his older brother leaning over him, his hands rubbing up and down Tim's arms to work the warmth back into them.

"You're kinda soaked through, hm?" Dick hums, like it's a question, like Tim's fringe isn't dripping into his eyes, like Tim hasn't already created a wet spot on Dick's couch.

"Why don't I grab you some clothes?" Dick says, taking his hands away, pretending he doesn't notice when Tim wavers where he sits. "I'll be right back."

It feels like Dick is only gone long enough for Tim to blink, or maybe he's just losing time again. That's been happening lately, Tim stares at walls and lets the hours slip away from him.

Nevertheless, between one breath and the next Dick is back crouching in front of Tim, setting down a pile of his own clothing on the cushion next to the younger.

"Why don't you get changed and I'll warm us somethin' up," Dick proposes. He's scanning Tim, blue eyes taking in every ragged broken piece of the boy. Because Tim's too tired to tuck any of it away right now, too exhausted to build up his walls.

But that's alright, it's alright when it's Dick.

"I've got some Alfred-Leftovers in the freezer," Dick goes on, still assessing Tim, seeing him for all that he isn't worth. Dick has had a lot of practice having one-sided conversations over the years, Tim's silence doesn't deter him whatsoever. "That sound alright with you?"

Tim's head feels too big for his shoulders, it's heavy and loaded down as he gives Dick a nod. It takes more effort than it should to bring his head back up, to straighten from where his body wants to slump.

Dick eyes him for another long moment, thinking something over before he stands. "Why don't you take a quick shower? Get warmed up," he suggests. "The food'll be done when you come out."

Tim nods again, grabbing the clothes with numb trembling fingers as he gets up from the couch. Dick's still watching him, hands fluttering in the air for a moment like he wants to pull Tim in, but he isn't sure if he should.

Tim takes a breath, works on getting his tongue to unstick from the roof of his mouth because he owes Dick at least this much. "Thank you," he says, and it comes out chocked and not sounding like Tim at all.

Dick chews on his bottom lip, he looks even more worried than he had before. If Tim had the energy, he'd kick himself. "No problem, kiddo," he says, and then, "you can always come to me."

Dick can't seem to help himself when he reaches out to run his fingers through Tim's sopping hair, and Tim can't tamper down the urge to lean into the contact.

That's all the encouragement Dick needs, he takes a step forward and pulls Tim in, arms circling around the younger and holding on tight.

At first, Tim's mind sort of sputters from one moment to the next- one of him swaying on his feet, with Dick's hand in his hair. The next with Tim's full weight being supported by his older brother, his face smooshed into the warmth of Dick's chest.

It takes Tim a solid seven seconds to remember to bring his arms up, and then he's clinging. Fingers shaking as they bunch up the polyester of Dick's dress shirt, something hot and vulnerable pushing at the backs of Tim's eyes.

Tim takes a shuddering breath and gives himself twenty-five seconds to hang onto Dick before he needs to pull himself together. Blinking back tears and getting his breathing under control before he steps away from Dick fully- because if Tim doesn't do it now, it's going to be impossible to let go later.

"Okay," Dick says, smiling at Tim, but the corner of his lip pulls down to the side, lopsided in a way it shouldn't be. "You go get cleaned up, handsome. I'll be here when you come out."

It should be an unnecessary thing to say, Tim will only be gone for ten minutes, he shouldn't need that kind of reassurance.

But god, does Tim appreciate it anyway.

Too many people have been disappearing from Tim's life lately.

* * *

Tim turns the tap on too hot and imagines that it's thawing him out on the inside, that once the water hits his skin it will somehow seep into Tim's soul and make him feel something again.

It doesn't.

Tim shuffles out of the shower smelling of borrowed soap and steam. He pulls on Dick's clothes and revels in the way that they don't fit, in the way that they hang over Tim's bare toes and spindly fingers, in the way that they are so very _not_ Tim.

Tim glances at himself in the mirror, but it's like he's staring at a different person and himself, somehow at the same time.

It's Tim in all the ways it isn't. A doppelganger that has done an admirable job at the duplication but has messed up the small details.

His hair hangs limply without his gel, framing his too gaunt face. His skin has taken on a pale pallor even for him, making Tim look ill. And his eyes look deadened, detached in a way that distantly reminds Tim of his mother's gaze.

Tim snaps his eyes away, he doesn't want to see himself right now, doesn't want _to_ be himself right now.

When Tim makes his way back downstairs Dick has changed into pajamas, is currently finishing up in the kitchen. It smells of broth and spices, the scent of it shouldn't turn Tim's stomach, but most things do recently.

"Soup okay?" Dick asks when he spots Tim, glancing over his shoulder as he dishes them up some food.

Tim nods, soup is just fine, it's not as if he'll be eating it.

They end up on the couch, Tim stuffed into a corner, Dick sprawled across the other two cushions. There's some sort of sitcom playing on the TV, but Tim isn't paying enough attention to name what it is, it's just background noise to cover over the sound of the pouring rain outside.

Tim counts his own inhales instead, it's both something to do and a reminder to keep breathing. He's up to a hundred-six when Dick shifts on the couch, turns to Tim a little more.

"Y'gonna try the soup?" he asks, and it isn't an accusation, not with the soft way Dick is speaking, but it feels like one.

Tim fights not to flitch, forces a spoonful of lukewarm soup into his mouth. It's hard to pry his jaw open, even harder to swallow. But Tim takes three mouthfuls before he sets his bowl back into his lap.

Dick gently nudges Tim's thigh with his toes, trying to get the younger boy's attention. He flashes a tame version of his usually vibrant smile when Tim glances over. "Hey," he almost-whispers, "what can I do?"

Tim un-pastes his tongue from the roof of his mouth, opens and closes it a few times as he unsuccessfully tries to find his words.

He doesn't know when it became so challenging to speak, but speaking requires Tim to interact, and interacting requires Tim to be present, and being present is more than Tim can handle right now.

"Can I . . . Can I stay here for a while?" Tim asks, letting his eyes trail away from Dick before he forces them to snap back. "Just—just for a few days?"

Dick bends forward, takes the bowl of unfinished soup out of Tim's hands and places it on the floor. And then Tim is being pulled into another warm embrace, Dick's face smooshed into Tim's damp hair, his fingers wrapping around Tim's ribs and the nape of his neck.

There is nothing like getting a hug from Dick Grayson, Tim still doesn't understand what he's done to have earned them.

"Of course, Timmers," Dick whispers, placing a kiss on the crown of Tim's head. "You can stay as long as you want, okay? You can stay as long as you want."

Tim closes his eyes and hides his face in Dick's t-shirt.

* * *

Dick has one of those alarm clocks that projects the time on the ceiling, big, and red, and mocking. Tim's been staring at the numbers instead of sleeping.

**_3:11am_**

Dick snuffles in his sleep, rolls over and slings an arm over Tim's chest before settling back down again. Tim had offered to sleep on the couch, but Dick insisted that his bed was big enough to share.

Tim thinks part of that is because Dick wants to keep an eye on him, doesn't want to sleep half an apartment away. Tim can't blame Dick for feeling that way, for being cautious.

**_3:16am _**

Tim does his best to match his respiration to Dick's, to breathe deep and calm. It takes some concentration on his part, but after a while Tim finds the rhythm. He's breathing, just like Dick, someone so full of life and warmth and happiness, but Tim couldn't feel further away from any of those things.

He's numb and empty and cold.

**_3:28am_**

All Tim has are thoughts, choices, decisions, limited options. There is a timer hanging over Tim's head, and it's going to go off at any second. He has to make a plan, has to figure out his next move.

Dad is dead.

Dana isn't in her right mind, and even if she was, she has no parental rights over Tim.

Child Protective Services aren't going to overlook a sixteen-year-old boy living on his own for much longer.

But Bruce wants him, Bruce _actually wants him._

But does Tim want Bruce?

Yes.

Yes, of course, Tim has always wanted Bruce, he'll never stop fighting for Bruce, protecting Bruce. He's Bruce's pupil, he's his right-hand man, he's his partner.

Tim will always follow Bruce.

But that's the thing.

Tim became Robin for Bruce, he did it to save Bruce from himself, Bruce didn't choose Tim.

And has that changed?

Tim doesn't want to be an obligation, doesn't want to be a burden, Tim doesn't want to be taken in out of a sense of duty.

If Tim were to end up at Wayne Manor he'd want it to be a voluntary decision, not one made out of misplaced guilt or responsibility.

**_3:52am_**

Tim blinks up at the ceiling, -mind still spinning, options horribly lacking, time ticking down by the second- he watches the numbers of the clock change with tired itchy eyes.

* * *

Tim tries to drink his coffee black and scolding but Dick steals his cup, adds a spill of cream and a tiny bit of sugar -the way Tim usually takes his coffee- and slides the mug across the table back to Tim without a word.

Tim wraps his hands around the hot cup, pressing the pads of his fingers against the ceramic even when it hurts. Tim holds them there for a long moment, savoring the singe of the burn and ignoring the ache of grief. His palms are bright red when he finally pulls them away, Tim hides his hands under the table, not wanting Dick to see.

"So what's…what's on the agenda today?" Tim asks, taking a sip of his coffee when his voice comes out too soft.

Dick dances around the kitchen in his morning routine- grabbing two bowls and spoons from the drying-rack, sliding them onto the table before he spins back to the fridge, snatching the milk from inside and the Cocoa Puffs off the top.

Dick plops in the seat opposite Tim and pours himself a serving, nudges the other empty bowl in Tim's general direction when the teenager makes no move to dish himself up.

Tim eyes the cereal with distaste, glances at the milk and think about eating something cold when he's already freezing on the inside.

Tim pushes the bowl away and makes a compromise, stuffing his hand into the cereal box and grabbing a fistful of fake chocolate. He pops a couple in his mouth and forces himself to chew.

Dick watches Tim with sad pursed lips, but when the older opens his mouth to speak, all he says is, "I should probably do some shopping. I've been kinda livin' off of takeout recently. Been too swamped to bother with anything else."

Tim shoves some more dry cereal into his mouth, says, "I'm not picky. Alfred-Leftovers and takeout are fine."

Dick gives Tim another one of those assessing glances. There have been a lot of concerned looks aimed at Tim this morning, but Tim doesn't know how to respond to them, doesn't know what he's supposed to do or say.

He's been doing his best to act like he isn't on the receiving end of them, acknowledging Dick's worry makes Tim feel sick and guilty in a way he can't cope with at the moment.

"I think it's a good idea," Dick says, taking another bite of his breakfast. "You can grab some of your favorites and I can pick up a few things."

Tim glances down at his coffee, wraps his fingers back around it and wishes that he could soak up all of its warmth. Maybe then he'd feel alive, maybe if Tim could find a way to thaw himself out, he'd be able to feel something other than numb and detached.

But it's been five days of this cold floating feeling, five days since dad's funeral, five days since Tim watched the casket lower to the ground, five days since Tim looked down at the graves of his parents and tasted the bloody word 'orphan' on his lips.

Five days of feeling dead inside.

"Yeah," Tim croaks, chest cleaved wide open. He forces a sip of coffee down his throat, it tastes like chalk on his tongue, goes cold by the time it reaches his stomach. "Yeah, that sounds good."

* * *

Tim shadows Dick for a while, hands stuffed into his borrowed hoodie, head held down, watching impassively as Dick selects different food items and places them in his carrier.

The grocery store is quiet and empty around them, which isn't surprising, it's eleven o'clock on a Thursday morning, most people are at work.

When Tim had asked why Dick wasn't at the Station Dick said he had the day off, but Tim thinks he might've accidentally used up one of Dick's limited Sick Days.

Dick grabs a package of Ravioli, tosses it into his basket slung over the crook of his arm. "We can have pasta for dinner," he says, glancing back at Tim. "I'm not a very good cook but I think we can manage pasta." He winks with the statement, smiles at Tim like he's happy to have him here.

A tingle spreads all the way from Tim's fingertips to his ears, he thinks it's his body attempting to feel something other than emptiness. His emotions trying and failing to wake up. The feeling fades just as quickly as it appeared, Tim does his best not to focus on the loss of it.

"Pasta is fine," Tim replies with a faint shrug.

He remembers when he was ten, already so acquainted with loneliness, feeling like a ghost amongst a mausoleum of a home. Tim had wandered into the kitchen in a desperate need for human contact. The Cook, Ms. Kay, hadn't seemed to mind Tim's company, and they had chatted while she prepared food and he snacked.

And then one day, Tim had hesitantly asked if he could help, if she would teach him. Ms. Kay had patiently shown Tim how to make grilled cheese, how to roll out a pie crust, how to peel an egg.

It was a few weeks later that Tim burnt his finger on a cookie sheet. It hadn't been bad, had hardly hurt. But his time with Ms. Kay stopped after that, she didn't teach him anymore, and their kitchen chats became so bland and stilted that Tim had given up trying.

"I don't know how to cook either," Tim says, "we could…we could get easy to make things?" he suggests, but the end of the sentence hangs off like a question. "Like potpies or ready to go pizza." Tim shrugs again, looking down at his sneakers.

"That sounds great Timmy." Dick beams down at him, places a hand on Tim's shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "Why don't you grab some stuff from the freezer section, and we'll meet back up at the register?" He bends down and grabs another black basket from a stack on the floor, thrusting it at Tim with a smile.

Tim fumbles with the handle, feeling a little dazed at being sent on a task alone, he hadn't thought Dick would want them to split up. But as Tim turns down the aisle away from Dick, he has to admit it feels good to be trusted to be by himself.

Makes him feel a little less like a ticking time bomb.

Tim grabs a pizza with toppings he knows Dick will like, throws two potpies into the basket, and picks out some chicken nuggets and crinkle fries purely because he's allowed to.

Tim's scanning the section for any last-minute splurges when his eyes get caught on bright orange packaging.

He sort of stutters in the middle of the freezer aisle, a Taylor Swift song playing overhead on tinny speakers, his Chuck-Taylors squeaking on the linoleum floor.

Those had been Stephanie's favorite burritos, she had liked them because they quote- _'melt your face off.'_ Her craving for them (and other spicy foods) had only gotten worse when she was pregnant.

The burritos had become a staple in her house and Tim's for a while.

Tim hasn't had one since before she died, he hadn't been a huge fan of them, he only ate them because _Stephanie_ ate them.

Tim stares at the package for a drawn-out moment, long enough that the song peters out and another begins. And then Tim leans down and places the burritos into his basket with reverent fingers, feeling that tingle in the pit of his stomach again.

Tim turns away from the freezer section and goes to find Dick.

* * *

Tim wakes up with the imprint of the couch cushions pressed into his cheek and a Superman blanket tangled around his ankles.

Tim fiddles with a corner of the blanket, wondering how long he had been asleep. Long enough for Dick to have gone and dug up the fleece blanket, frayed at the edges and its once vibrant colors washed out with use and time.

Tim buries his nose into it and closes his eyes.

The apartment smells of pepperoni and marinara, Dick's thrown one of the pizzas into the oven for dinner. But when Tim glances to the kitchen the man isn't there.

Tim cocks his head to the side, listening. There's the faint sound of the shower running, of Dick's muffled voice that means he's probably singing.

Tim huffs a sleepy laugh to himself and lets his body sink back into the cushions, feeling mussed and lethargic.

He's lightly dozing, keeping half an ear out for Dick, when Tim hears the muted buzz of a phone rattling against the coffee table.

Tim leans up on an elbow and grabs his phone with numb fingers, watching as the screen lights up with a text from Bart, from Conner, from Cassie.

Bart's excited about something, typing so fast half the words are illegible. If Tim opened the group-chat he could see what Bart is going on about, could read through the many texts he's missed over the past few days.

But then Tim would feel obligated to say something, to reply to the missed messages from Conner or the voicemail from Cassie.

Tim looks at the screen with burning eyes, watches listlessly until it fades out to black. Tim thinks about telling his friends, of having to speak or type out the words that he hasn't been able to say to anyone but himself.

_'My dad died,'_

_'My dad was murdered,'_

_'My dad's dead,'_

_'Dead,'_

_'Dead,'_

**_'Dead.'_**

Tim swallows against the hot ember burning at the back of his throat and pops the back of his phone off with deft fingers. Slipping the battery out, and then stuffing it and the phone under separate couch cushions for good measure.

There's a thrumming under his skin, something hot and needy trapped behind Tim's sternum, begging, pleading to be let free. It's aggressive as it tries to force its way out of Tim's mouth, to leak through his eyes, to bleed from his nose.

And the longer Tim refuses to let it out the worse the feeling gets, the harder to contain it becomes. It has turned inward, biting and clawing at anything in its reach, ripping at Tim's lungs, and ribs, and heart.

A monster locked inside his chest where it can't do any harm but to Tim himself.

Tim isn't sure how long it takes for the feeling to dissipate into something more manageable. But when he can finally breathe again, the apartment is still quiet and soft around him, the fleece blanket is bunched up in his fists, and the sun is steadily setting outside, washing the room in dull yellows.

The world hasn't stopped turning even though Tim's is in the process of crumbling. And it's selfish and unfair to think it would do anything otherwise, but Tim still finds himself wishing that it would take a pause, one moment of stillness, just so he could finally catch his breath.

But the world stops for no one, least of all Tim.

* * *

Dick's alarm goes off at 5:45 the next morning. He hits snooze twice before Tim finally reaches over and pinches his side.

Dick makes a wounded sleepy noise in the back of his throat as he clumsily swats at Tim. Mumbles, "y're mean," before he finally rolls out of bed, still half-asleep as he trudges to the bathroom.

Tim stays curled up under the covers, but after a long moment he gives in, scooting over to the puddle of warmth Dick left behind. Some of his rays of sunshine spilled out into the sheets, waiting for Tim to soak them up.

When Dick emerges from the bathroom, he's only half-way to being Officer Grayson, his hair unbrushed and his shirt needing buttoned.

Dick doesn't say anything about Tim stealing his side of the mattress, but he does lean down, gently ruffles Tim's bedhead to make it all the worse.

"I'll be back around four this afternoon," he tells Tim, grabbing his watch and a pair of socks with an obnoxiously bright pattern on them. "Then I'm all yours, we can binge-watch trash TV and eat junk food 'til we throw up. Or whatever it is you wanna do, kay?"

Tim nods into the pillows, "kay," he says back.

Dick's hand comes up to rest between Tim's shoulder blades, big and warm, and _Dick_. Tim wonders if Dick can feel the ridges of his spine, if he can make out the divots of his ribs, if he can feel the way Tim has stopped breathing.

"Hey, Timmers?" Dick starts, quiet and careful. "I want you to call me if you need anything, okay? Don't hesitate, it won't bother me."

Tim thinks about his cellphone, dismantled and stuffed into the couch, silenced because Tim is too much of a coward to answer it.

"Yeah," Tim says, "for sure."

Dick's hand rubs up and down Tim's back as he leans over to kiss Tim on the temple. "Alright, handsome. I'll see you later."

With that Dick gets up and finishes getting ready for work and Tim lets himself fall back to sleep.

* * *

He steals some of Dick's wool socks and wraps the Superman blanket around his shoulders like a cape, wonders absently what Kon would have to say about that.

Tim feels cold and shaky in a way that he knows is more psychological than physical, but knowing that doesn't stop the tremors in his fingers or dissolve the chilled ache in his chest.

Tim wanders into the guest bathroom and stares at the shower, thinks about turning on the tap as far as it will go and letting it turn his skin red and raw, thinks about standing under the spray for so long his digits prune, and his limbs go numb.

Tim forces his eyes away, forces the idea away.

He shuts himself in the bathroom instead, finding a clean towel under the sink and stuffing it in the crack under the door.

Tim turns the shower on so hot it would scorch his skin if he touched it, and then he backs away before he can do anything stupid. Sitting on the opposite side of the bathroom, on the tiled floor, wrapped in borrowed clothing and a child's blanket.

Steam builds steadily, fogging up the mirror and the lone window, making the room so humid and muggy a person could choke on it.

Tim closes his eyes and listens to the sound of the shower, letting the steam fill his nose and lungs, trying desperately to soak in its warmth.

* * *

When Dick gets home, Tim is still sporting the wool socks, but he's traded the Superman fleece for a worn-soft sweater.

The first thing Dick does when he enters the apartment is swoop Tim up into a hug, like he had a chance to miss Tim in the sparse hours he was gone, like Tim is someone precious, like he'd been waiting to see _Tim_ at the end of the day.

But that's the thing about Dick Grayson, he has a way of making everyone feel special, it's part of who he is. Dick cares about people, and he is good at showing it, at letting those people know that they are loved.

It had been a culture shock for Tim, at first. To be around someone who was so blatant with their affection. Tim's parents had been distant and careful with their love, it was something to be treasured because it was something rarely given.

It's never like that with Dick, Tim never has to earn these types of things from him, he never has to keep track of the terms of endearment or the hugs he receives, because there is no quota-fill with Dick, Tim can't go into debt here.

When Dick finally pulls away, a full twenty-seven seconds later, he scans Tim with fond assessing eyes, and then he smiles, soft and kind as he asks, "so, I'm thinkin' chicken nuggets and fries, what'd'ya say?"

They end up pushing the coffee table forward and sitting on the floor of the living room, backs pressed against the frame of the couch and food spilled out over the table.

Dick drowns his chicken nuggets in ketchup while Tim picks at the fries with quivering fingers. And Dick's nice enough not to mention it, even though Tim can feel his concerned gaze flickering over every few minutes.

Tim gets down four chicken nuggets and a handful of fries, and he doesn't miss the way Dick loses some tension he had been holding in his shoulders, so minute Tim wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been watching for it in the first place.

By the time most the food is gone, the apartment has turned calm and fuzzy around them, a gray haze that weighs down on Tim. Makes him slump against the couch cushions, his head inching toward Dick's shoulder, a slow descent, where, if Tim were brave enough, he could lean into his brother's side.

There is a moment of indecision on Tim's part, a sort of stutter to his movements, a hesitancy to infringe on someone else's personal space.

Things like this, touch, comfort, they were never freely given to Tim. And so, he is still new and inexperienced when it comes to initiating them, afraid he might push too hard or come off as clingy.

But Dick is a veteran in these things. There is no uncertainty when he wraps an arm around Tim, pulling the younger into his side. Right into his bubble of warmth and kindness, like this is something that belongs to Tim.

And it is that, the easy contact, the effortlessness in which it is given, that breaks something wide open in Tim.

He hasn't cried since it happened, since he ran into their apartment heart pounding and ears ringing, _too-late-too-late-too-late._

Since he found his father with a blade sticking out of his chest, his body already cooling on the floor, _too-late-too-late-too-late._

Since Bruce had raced in after him, wrapping Tim up in his arms and cape, because there was nothing else left to do but mourn, _too-late-too-late-too-late._

Batman and Robin, orphans.

Dick hugs Tim to his chest, pulls the teenager in tighter, practically on to his lap, murmurs a soft, "oh, Timmy," as he pets Tim's hair back, making little shushing noises under his breath.

But Tim has never been a loud crier, even when he's in the process of falling apart.

He clutches to Dick with trembling fingers and screws his eyes shut against the tears he has no control over. Feeling torn open and cut through the middle. Free falling without a grapple to save him, waiting for the pavement to catch up with him.

Tim never had this with his parents, a relationship where Tim could hold onto them and know that they wouldn't ever let go.

He had always been chasing after them it felt like, walking along the fringes of their shadows so he wouldn't get in the way, trampled underfoot. Always on the outside, following where he would go unseen and unheard, a porcelain-doll pulled out and dusted off when it was deemed necessary.

But dad had been trying these last few months. After he found out about Robin and Tim's double life. Things had been better, Tim felt as if he could have an actual relationship with his father. It had still been a work in progress, but their foundation was there, that trust was growing, and maybe along the way, they would have truly found their footing.

But Robin didn't save the day, he didn't stop the bad guy, he didn't get there in time, _too-late-too-late-too-late._

* * *

It's when Tim has finally stopped crying, now laying on top of Dick, his head resting on his brother's chest, that the man asks, low and quiet, "Tim, sweetheart? I'm sorry, but I hafta ask. Did. . . Has Bruce said anything to you?"

They haven't stepped foot anywhere near this subject in the few days that Tim has been here, but now that Tim has shattered atop Dick, spilled all over him- it's been unearthed and left out in the open, a gaping wound that needs to be tended to.

Tim's head feels stuffy and raw, an aftereffect of crying, eyes swollen and red, voice croaky and still hitched when he answers, "he offered."

Dick shifts a little, runs his fingers through Tim's hair. "…offered…?" he asks, because there needs to be clarification, you can never make assumptions when it comes to Batman.

"To adopt me," Tim chokes out, because it's wonderful and horrible, because it's acceptance and abandonment, because it's a comfort and a tragedy.

Dick props them up from their laying position, and for a moment Tim thinks the man has grown tired of the contact, that Tim has pushed too far, asked for too much.

But Dick keeps him wrapped in a loose hug, his fingers kneading little circles into Tim's back. Dick leans down so he can catch Tim's eye as he says, "yeah? Sounds like him," something of a self-deprecating smile playing at the corners of his lips. "And what're you thinkin' about that?"

"I don't…" Tim starts and doesn't know how to finish, because the world has taught Tim that what he wants and what he needs are two very different things.

And Tim _wants_ to say yes.

Deep down, in the chasm that has made a home in his chest, where Tim has always dreamed of being wanted, of being treasured, of being someone's first choice. He wants to be able to fill it up with something, to start stitching it closed, to keep it from tearing open any further.

But maybe Tim _needs_ to say no.

Because if he takes his emotions out of the equation, if he looks at this logically and objectively, then is having to rely solely on Bruce the right choice? Is essentially forcing himself onto Bruce going to make their relationship turn out any differently from how things were with Tim's parents?

And could Tim take that? Could he survive becoming a ghost again, left in the background, forgotten until it becomes convenient to take him off the shelf.

Tim doesn't think he could do that, not again, not with Bruce.

"…I don't know," Tim whispers out, because this has been weighing on him for days, been keeping him awake at night, been making his heart pound and his hands shake. "I don't know," he says again, a confession.

Dick's mouth quirks down, sad and sympathetic, something understanding, something _knowing,_ shining in the blues of his eyes. Because he'd know, wouldn't he? Dick went through this too, he watched as his parents fell, and then he was scooped up and wrapped in a yellow cape and told that is what he needed. Because Dick was the first of them, the original Robin, Bruce's first child in his collection of orphans.

Dick looks at Tim with that knowing stare, his lips pursing in that way that means he's keeping himself from biting them, a tell in itself. And then he slides his arms from around Tim and brings his hands up to Tim's face, swiping his thumbs across Tim's cheekbones like he's brushing away tears.

But Tim isn't crying anymore, his tears have dried up. Been choked down and locked away with the monster in his chest, barred back by Tim's ribcage, banished into the chasm resting behind Tim's sternum.

"Okay," Dick says, voice hushed. His scarred fingers still running along Tim's face, soothing and soft, a gesture that makes Tim feel like a child. "That's okay, you don't have to know right now."

Tim closes his eyes.

* * *

When Tim wakes up the next morning, there is soft sunlight trickling through the curtains and Dick's side of the bed has grown cold in his absence.

It's a little disorienting, at first, waking up after a full night's rest. Tim doesn't remember the last time he slept more than a few hours at a time. It's been hard lately, getting his mind to shut off long enough for him to sleep.

Tim lays there for a while, swathed in warm sheets and heavy with the dregs of sleep still hanging onto him. He watches the dust particles in the air dance in a beam of sunshine with unfocused eyes, pretends that they are like the fireflies he used to catch in the Spring.

When Tim finally does roll out of bed, he takes the covers with him, tugging the heavy duvet from the sheets and wrapping it around his shoulders, telling himself that he'll re-make the bed long before Dick gets home.

If Tim hadn't been trained out of the clumsiness that comes with early mornings, then he might've tripped on his way down the stairs, comforter tangling around his ankles and pooling at his feet. But Tim is Robin and he knows how to move with the weight of a cape and the world on his shoulders.

It smells like burnt toast and bacon when Tim makes it into the kitchen, meaning that Dick had the energy to jump into the misadventures of cooking before he left. There's a note stuck to the fridge with a Flash magnet, written in Dick's swooping handwriting, it says-

_'Hey Timbo, breakfast is on the top shelf. I hope you have a good day today! I only have a 6-hour shift, I'll be back around 1pm._

_Love ya, Timmy._

_~ Dick.'_

Tim catches himself smiling stupidly at the note, Dick's exaggerated signature on the bottom, not the fancy scrawl that Alfred had taught him, but the sloppy looping letters that showcase Dick's personality.

It is that same signature, but younger, more childish, that rests on a ticket stub from over a decade ago. Hidden away in a lockbox under Tim's bed. Along with a collection of photographs, including one of the Drakes on a rare family outing, smiling at the camera with a trio of colorful acrobats.

Tim thumbs the dumb smile off of his face and opens the fridge, finds a few pieces of bacon and some eggs wrapped on a plate. A hot-pink sticky-note on top that simply says, _'toast gets soggy' _with a little frowny face at the bottom.

Tim sets about warming up his breakfast, managing not to lose the duvet as he moves about, which seems to be a bit of a skill.

And then Tim settles himself on the couch, nestled down in pillows and blankets, preparing for a day of nothingness.

He's back to feeling detached, like his body is a separate entity from him somehow. Tim Drake's life and problems feel almost distant, something far away, something that can't hurt Tim from this isolated place he has found himself in.

And it's not necessarily a bad sensation, but Tim knows that if he were to pick at it, if he were to try to mess with this odd headspace, then it would unravel, puff away like the cloud of smoke that it is, and Tim would be dropped right back into the thick of it.

He knows that he will have to disrupt the fog eventually, that soon he will need to come back down to earth and start making those life-altering decisions that sent Tim scattering to this safety in the first place. Tim will have to pull himself out of his head and away from Dick's apartment, and go back to the real world.

And then, Tim will have a choice to make.

The clock is running out; even here, wrapped in bedding and disconnected from reality, Tim can still hear it ticking, is aware of every second counting down.

Tim stuffs a piece of too salty bacon into his mouth and presses play on some show that fills up Dick's DVR, drowning out the sound of the clock with cheesy banter and a laugh-track.

* * *

Tim wakes up to the sound of the door thumping shut, the skitter of keys hitting the counter and shoes being kicked off, of socked feet on tile and then carpet as Dick approaches him.

"Hey sleepyhead," Dick murmurs to Tim, crouching low as he smirks at the teenager, he gives Tim a sweeping glance, amusement in his eyes as he takes in the nest Tim has constructed. Tim had meant to clean up before Dick got home, but it seems he fell asleep instead.

Whoops.

"How was work?" Tim asks, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

Dick reached forward and ruffles Tim's hair, gives him one of those smiles that are somehow both mischievous and charming at the same time. "Good. Mostly boring. Someone burnt the last of the coffee this morning, so I was the hero and went out and picked some up from everyone's favorite place. People were singin' my praises all day."

Tim huffs something close to a laugh, quips, "so the usual."

And it gets the desired response when Dick chuckles, lips quirking as he stands back up. "You been up long?" Dick asks as he walks into the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge. "You were pretty dead asleep when I left this morning."

Tim shrugs even though Dick isn't looking at him, says, "been up a while. Well…_mostly,"_ he adds on, thinking about his accidental nap.

Dick comes back into the living room with two cans of Zesti, passing one to Tim as he takes a seat on the coffee table across from Tim's place curled up on the couch.

Dick lets the silence stretch in a way he normally wouldn't, shifting where he sits, fiddling with his soda. It puts Tim on edge, makes his back straighten and his fingers go tingly where Tim has them pressed against cold aluminum.

Tim's mouth has gone dry by the time Dick speaks up.

"So I've been thinking…" he starts, takes a breath- and that's when Tim realizes, _Dick is_ _psyching himself_ up_ for something. _Tim holds himself steady, pretends his heart isn't pounding against his ribs.

"I wanted to talk to you," Dick restarts, setting his can down by his hip as he finds his composure. "About the possibility of staying here." At Tim's gobsmacked expression he goes on hurriedly, "it wouldn't have to be a permanent thing, or, or it could be, if, in the future, that _is_ what you want."

Tim has no words, he's been abruptly jerked back into reality, and it has left Tim gasping and dizzy, a shock to his entire system- like smacking headfirst into a brick wall, like coming off a building too fast and skidding across a rooftop, like falling and getting whiplash from the near-miss of a grapple-line.

Tim's mind is racing almost as fast as his heart, and he still can't seem to find his voice, but that's alright for now, because Dick is still talking.

"I just wanted you to know you have options," Dick says, body language open and vulnerable, his eyes so very earnest. "It wouldn't take much to turn my office back into a bedroom. You could stay here for as long, or for as little, as you want, okay? I won't get offended either way."

At this, he leans forward and squeezes Tim's shoulder, flashes an uncertain smile at Tim's lack of response. "I just needed to make sure you knew that you're _always_ welcome here." He pulls away, runs a hand through his hair, chuckles softly under his breath. "I figured that if I didn't formally offer than you wouldn't…" he cuts off. "I just…I love you a lot, kid. And you can always come to me with the little stuff, but you can come to me with the big stuff too, okay?"

Tim is reeling, mouth opening and shutting but unable to form words. He's lost in uncharted waters, floundering stupidly in the face of Dick's unbridled kindness. Tim never expected Dick to make such a large offer, he never. . .

Dick isn't even that much older than Tim, he's only twenty-two years old. Tim has to remind himself of that fact sometimes. That Dick is a young adult, still learning how to navigate life on his own, how to juggle all of his responsibilities.

It's easy to forget that, to forget that Dick is still young, especially when Tim has looked up to him for so long.

Dick has always been someone that seems bigger than life itself. Batman's first partner, a founder of the Titans, a hero that the League respects, a person that everyone trusts.

Nightwing has a hoard of friends and allies at his back and the strength and courage to lead them all. Nightwing has helped to save the world, but this isn't Nightwing offering a home to Tim, it's Dick Grayson, the boy next door, the teenager with a yellow cape, the man who seems to defy gravity itself.

"I– I love you too," Tim blurts when he can form sentences again, because it seems like the right thing to say. When someone tells you they love you, when they offer you a room and a bed, you tell them you love them too.

That doesn't save Tim from blushing in embarrassment though, tripping over his tongue as he goes on, "and-and thank you. I…I'm not–" he bites his lip to cut off his stammering, because Tim might've found his voice, but that doesn't mean he has collected his words.

What would happen if Tim said yes? If he decided to stay in Blüdhaven with Dick, if he packed up his stuff and they turned Dick's office into a bedroom, if he _lived_ here instead of just stayed here.

Tim can imagine it, getting into a routine; Dick would go to work and Tim would go back to school. Tim would do the dishes because Dick hates washing them, and Dick would sweep because Tim always misses the corners. He can see them sitting at the coffee table, Dick doing his paperwork while Tim finishes up his homework. They'd probably eat takeout a few times a week, trade-off cooking on the other days, live off of leftovers for the rest.

But…

But Robin belongs to Batman, and therefore, Tim to Bruce.

Bruce's offer to adopt him still presses at Tim's heart, the man's words echo in the chasm of Tim's chest, _"I'd like to adopt you, Tim. I'd very much like you to consider becoming my son."_ A promise to fill up the void, to smother the monster down where it couldn't tear into Tim anymore.

Because…what it comes down to, the truth of the matter is, for Tim, it is Bruce, or it is no one.

If Tim were to say yes to anyone, if he were to take this chance with anyone, it would be Bruce.

Tim can't say yes to Dick, because well, that was never a viable option in the first place.

"I'll…I'll think about it," Tim says, letting all the gratitude he feels seep into his voice, because while he might not be able to accept Dick's offer, the offer in itself has already beaten back the monster, has left Tim's chest thrumming with the knowledge that even if he has no one, he will always have Dick.

* * *

It's two days later, while Tim is in bed- failing to sleep, waiting absently to hear the sounds of Nightwing crawling back in through the window, -that Tim feels his internal countdown hit zero.

He closes his eyes against the overwhelming sensation of it, the tingle that spreads under his skin, the anxiety that wants to crawl up his throat, the monster stirring inside his ribcage.

It's hard to breathe at first, it's like the air has been sucked out of the room, like the weight of the world has been settled on Tim's chest. Because reality has come crashing back down on Tim, and it's time to come to terms with it all. Tim has maxed out his allotted amount of seconds, he can't delay the inevitable any longer.

Tim can't hide anymore.

When Dick gets in twenty-three minutes later, Tim forces his body to go loose and relaxed instead of rigid and stressed. Closing his eyes and focusing on his breathing. Feigning sleep until Dick's light snores fill up the space between them.

And then, hours later, when the sun has turned the world gray instead of black, Tim gets up.

* * *

It's harder than it should be, to shuck off Dick's clothes and put on his own. Tim hasn't worn his own clothing once in the six days he's been here, he had been enveloped in Dick's too big t-shirts and long sweatpants instead, wrapped in the scent of Dick's detergent and the smell of his shampoo.

It feels like a loss when Tim slips back into his own pants and hoodie.

Tim's footsteps are soundless as he makes his way downstairs, he doesn't bother to turn on the lights or to grab any food, he won't leave a trace of having been here, a shadow in the night, a ghost ready to fade away.

Tim finds a pen and paper instead, sits down at the kitchen table to write Dick a note. It takes Tim three different tries to get it right. He ends up with-

_"Dick, thank you for this week and for always having my back, you have no idea what that means to me. I used to imagine what it would be like to have a brother, and sometimes I still can't believe I get to have you as mine._

_I'm sorry for taking off, but there's some stuff I need to take care of, responsibilities that I've been putting off._

_I'll make sure to visit more, I didn't realize how much I missed you until I was here._

_Love, Tim."_

It still isn't enough, no matter what Tim writes, he won't be able to convey how grateful he is to Dick. He should have mentioned how appreciative he is of Dick's offer, but every time Tim thinks about Dick asking him to live here, every time he tries to write the words he wants to say, his chest gets tight and his hands shake and Tim feels breathless from it all.

Tim stuffs his first two drafts into his pocket and presses the finished letter to the fridge with a Wonder Woman magnet, leaving it there for Dick to find when he wakes up.

Tim fiddles with the strings of his hoodie as he backs away from the kitchen, his mouth feeling dry and his head buzzing. There isn't much else to do, it's time to leave.

Tim forces himself to stalk into the living room, to crouch in front of the couch and fish his phone and battery out from underneath the couch cushions, still tucked away where Tim had hidden it days earlier.

Tim clicks the two pieces into place, and it feels like reality shifts into something heavier the moment he turns his phone back on. There are seven missed calls and forty-two unread text messages waiting for Tim. Most of the messages are from the group-chat, but there are a few from Ives, from Alfred, from Kon, from Bruce.

Tim stuffs his phone into his pocket and tells himself he'll reply later.

There is nothing else for Tim to do, he needs to leave now, before the sun finishes coming up, before Dick's alarm goes off, before he loses his nerve.

Tim stalls instead, he grabs the Superman blanket draped over the couch and presses his face into it. Taking a one, two, three calming breaths of Dick's brand of detergent to settle himself, and then Tim pulls away, leaving the blanket neatly folded on the couch.

The door doesn't make a sound when Tim shuts it, and then it is thirteen paces to the stairwell and forty-eight steps down, and it is only a blink later that Tim is walking out of the building and into the brisk air of no-longer night but not-quiet morning.

Tim thinks about walking all the way back to his apartment, but little shivers are already building under his skin and his breath mists the air in front of his face, so Tim steps off the sidewalk and hails down a cab.

He tells the man his street-address and then they're driving away, and when the urge to look back tugs at Tim's neck he closes his eyes instead.

* * *

Tim sits in front of a laptop and makes a decision.

Tim has been given two options; he can choose to be adopted by someone he knows, or, he can become a ward of the state.

These are the choices that the world and the adults have granted Tim. They have stated them in blacks and whites and told Tim to abide by these rules, to make his decision within the parameters of those rules.

But Tim has always worked in a world of gray, the in-between area that people like to ignore. He's well versed in it, can pick out the different shades and hues with the ease that comes with years of practice.

The law has given Tim two options, Tim has given himself a third.

It's going to take time and commitment, more sleepless nights to add to Tim's ever-growing collection, but that's alright, that's okay, because Tim is willing to put in all the work that something like this requires.

Identification and birth certificate, school transcripts and medical records, bank statements and credit scores, social security number and a new name, a million other things that Tim will have to account for.

Making up a person is no little job.

Tim glances out the window and watches as the sunlight up the pavement below, turning the sky a pinkish-yellow, painting the world soft, melting the chill from the buildings and warming the air, the beginning of a new day.

Tim is taking his life into his own hands now, he won't be pawned off on someone else, he won't have to rely on adults, he won't have to watch every move he makes.

Tim will live as an emancipated minor, and it will work, it will be okay, because Tim raised himself in an empty house and he learned long ago how to take care of himself.

There is a new clock ticking down, but Tim is prepared this time, he won't be caught off guard by it going off, he has a plan set in place, and Tim's ready to follow through.

He gets to work.

* * *

**And we all know where the story goes on from here. . . Poor Timmy. **

**If you'd like to see my artwork for this fic you can find it at 'fernandidilly-draws' on Tumblr. **

**Thank you so much for reading, please drop a comment below, I'd appreciate it a lot. :)**

**Until then boys, girls, and pals, _Fernandidilly-yo out_**_**. **_


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